Rip Cord, the infamous Bad Boy of the NFL, ends up on Gil Davis’ front porch drunk as a skunk. Not only has he been fired by his franchise, but also his sports agent. His last brawl on the football field during a prime time game was the final straw.

Accounting geek Gil Davis hasn’t seen his on-again, off-again lover since the summer when the professional football player whisked him away for a kinky sex-filled getaway weekend. But immediately after, Rip returned to the NFL and was on the road leaving no time for Gil. Now Rip wants to come back into Gil’s life one more time, this time to not only make a future with him, but to finally admit who he really is deep down inside. After hiding his sexual preference since he was a teen, Rip realizes he’s made too many bad choices along the way. It’s time to make the right choice with Gil.

But is Gil ready to forgive Rip for keeping him at a distance? And more importantly, after two false starts, can they finally live happily ever after?

The light began to fade as the evening was coming to a close. They had made a quick stop at a nearby convenience store so Rip could pick up a box of condoms.

He had tucked a couple of them in the back pocket of his jeans. The rest had been tossed into the backseat, still in the bag. He would never be caught unprepared again. Especially around Gil.

But before directing him to his place, one more stop needed to be made. Somewhere the ghosts still haunted him.

Now they sat in the cracked concrete driveway of a run-down house. They stared through the bug-splattered windshield of the Prius at the overgrown weeds, the peeling green paint, and the off kilter porch.

“Isn’t this where you grew up?”

Rip barely nodded. His stomach was tied in knots. He thought it would be a good idea to bring Gil here. To help him understand why Rip was the way he was. But now, it didn’t seem like such a great idea.

Rip pushed open the passenger side door and unfolded himself from the cramped shoebox.

That car was so Gil. Unassuming but efficient. Smart. Dependable.

From behind him, Rip heard Gil scramble out of the driver’s seat and rush to catch up.

“Does anyone live here now?”

“No.”

“Who owns it?”

“I do.”

Gil fell into step beside him as they rounded the back of the old Cape Cod. “You don’t live here. Right?”

“Hell no.”

Rip thought he heard a relieved sigh. He stole a glance at Gil’s face, but Gil’s head was down as he was busy concentrating on where he was stepping.

Good thinking. After Gil had tumbled down a mountain this summer at the cabin, Rip never wanted to watch Gil take a spill like that again.

The backyard looked like hell. Even though he had someone come mow once in a while, his mom’s vegetable garden in the back was overgrown, like the flower garden in the front. Not that it had been any different when he was a teenager. His pop didn’t give a shit what happened to the house after his mom died all those years ago. And Rip didn’t give a shit what happened to the house after his father died. The rat bastard.

Five crumbling terra cotta pots lined the back porch. Hopefully a key was still hidden under the middle one.

Rip kicked the pot over causing creepy crawlies to scatter from the light. He toed the silver house key out of the mess and picked it up.

“When was the last time you were here?”

Rip half shrugged. “After my pop died.”

Why did he suddenly feel like the sullen teenager who had grown up here? He was an adult; nothing and no one had power over him anymore. Even his career was now powerless over him.

He worked the key in the lock until he heard the click, and swung it open, the squeaky hinges grating on his nerves.

He fortified himself with a deep breath before he crossed the threshold into the galley kitchen. Gil pushed past him and went directly to the living room.

“You know, I was never in your house,” Gil called out from the front room of the house.

No. Of course not. They had run in different circles in high school. Not that he had invited his friends over either.

His gaze bounced around the dusty kitchen. Everything—all of it—was the same. He joined Gil in the living room.

Nothing had changed in that room either. Untouched since his father died. Rip was handed the keys after the funeral and he walked away, never looking back.

The house seemed smaller now. Confining. The kitchen and the living room felt tight, like jail cells. Cells covered in one inch of gray dust along with droopy cobwebs in every corner.

“Would you ever move back in here?”

Rip shook his head. “No. I’d sell it first.”

“Why do you still have it?”

“I don’t know.” He really didn’t. The house was paid off and Rip only had to keep up with the taxes. The utilities had been shut off years ago.

But no matter how bad things might get financially in the future, he would never, ever move back into this house. He would burn it to the ground first. He’d rather live in his car.

Or under a bridge.

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